


Ten and Two

by whitachi



Category: L.A. Noire
Genre: Car Sex, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-12
Updated: 2013-05-12
Packaged: 2017-12-11 14:52:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/799953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whitachi/pseuds/whitachi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the L.A. Noire kinkmeme. </p>
<p>Prompt: Cole - reason for the terrible driving. Because people who drive with him tend to give him a hand job. Choose who you want, just make it happen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ten and Two

He had his hands tight to the wheel at ten and two and his eyes fixed on the road, but he still swerved over the center line when Bekowsky reached his hand across to brush a finger just behind his ear, down his throat to the top of his collar. Bekowsky laughed.

“Hell, Phelps, you forget how to drive when you were overseas?” Cole hit the brakes hard before he rear-ended someone as Bekowsky grabbed at his jaw, dragging a thumb over the light prickles of whiskers that had risen since this morning.

“I drive perfectly well without distraction, Bekowsky,” he said, jaw tightening right under Bekowsky’s fingertips. The light changed to green and he barely remembered to hit the gas before someone behind him started honking.

“Can’t always be guaranteed a drive without distraction,” Bekowsky said, and Cole chanced a glance over to him. He wasn’t even looking; he was watching the road, watching Cole as he overshot turns and wavered over white lines, all as he manhandled him. Really, he should’ve stopped the car and demanded that Bekowsky take the wheel.

“A chase situation would be fairly different fro--” Cole had to stop talking when Bekowsky’s fingers jabbed into his mouth, index and middle pushing past his lips to scrape over his teeth, poke into the side of his cheek.

“Turn right here,” Bekowsky said, and Cole winced as the brakes squealed as he barely managed to make the turn. His tongue pushed at Bekowsky’s fingers without him meaning to, and he tightened his grip on the steering wheel. Bekowsky pulled his fingers away.

“I just see what your deal is, Phelps,” he said, and dropped his hand down, nearly blocking Cole’s access to the gear shift as he laid his hand on Cole’s thigh. “If everything’s not by the book and perfect, you don’t know how to goddamn handle it.”

“I am capable of dealing with any--” Bekowsky’s hand moved, on to his groin, squeezing at the erection he’d been happily denying. Cole’s eyes fluttered closed and in that second, he drifted to the left and scraped the paint off the car in the lane next to him.

“Eyes on the road, Phelps!” Bekowsky shouted, but Cole could hear the grin in his voice. He was working him now, hand tight and hot even through the fabric of his suit pants, and Cole breathed hard through his nose to try to clear his mind. When Bekowsky undid the fastenings of his trousers he ran a red light and nearly got them t-boned.

“Can’t you do this later, Stefan?” he hissed, feeling thickness in his throat as Bekowsky rubbed the meat of his palm on his prick, scrubbing the cotton of his underwear down onto the head of it, getting the fabric wet. Jesus, he was going to wreck. He took his foot off the gas and the car behind them tapped their bumper hard enough to make him jerk into Bekowsky’s hand.

“Straight through the next intersection, then hang a right,” Bekowsky said as his fingers found the width of his shaft and teased it, making him struggle for breath as he tried to remember the complicated series of motions between hands and feet that it took to get a car to move even an inch. He went up on the curb as he made the turn, and Bekowsky’s hand went into his underwear to touch skin.

“Jesus,” he breathed, and started to take the car aside, pulling it straight up onto the sidewalk to stop, but Bekowsky gripped him hard.

“Keep going, Cole. I know you can do it.” The hollow of his palm rubbed over where he was wet at the head of his prick. “They all said you were the best, after all.”

Cole was pushing nearly 80 miles an hour when he came grabbing the handbrake and going into a full on spin. Cars swerved passed him, honked and screamed things out the window, but none of them made impact. He caught his breath as Bekowsky wiped his hand on the inside of his shorts and did his pants up again.

“Hell, now you’ve got us all turned around, Phelps. You’re shit for directions.” Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Bekowsky bring his hand to his face, and just barely brush the base of his palm against his lips. “Take a left up here and go around the block to get us right again.”

Cole took three deep breaths, and hit the gas.


End file.
